


bring a knife (to a gun fight)

by strawberriez8800



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Modern AU, dog park, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25784035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriez8800/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: Something about Alfie teases the frankness out of Tommy; maybe it’s the apathy Alfie seems to thrive on that encourages Tommy to toss away his reservations, or maybe Tommy just wants to fuck him silly and figures honesty is the best policy, ranging from his opinions on Alfie’s dog to his cock.In which Tommy and Alfie meet at the dog park. Again and again. Modern AU.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 14
Kudos: 92





	bring a knife (to a gun fight)

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I wrote a one-shot with an actual plot. So, have a modern AU with Tommy and Alfie, and a dog park.

Tommy is walking Eve to the dog park on a Saturday morning when the rain decides to fall—by that he means fucking _fall—_ and floods the streets within minutes. A car speeds past and kicks up a load of suburban rainwater on them.

If Tommy sees the same number plate again, he _will_ slash those tires.

He thinks about turning back, because a stroll in the mud with water in his eyes isn’t his idea of fun. Yet it’s been days since he’s taken Eve out—courtesy to being too swamped with Shelby Company Limited to bother with anything else—and the dog is gazing at the fenced park with such longing. She’s rather gentle about it too, barely tugging at the leash—thank god for Greyhounds—so Tommy folds like a piece of tissue; they enter the park, collapsing sky be damned.

He keeps Eve on the leash, who pokes her nose into bushes and wilting flowers, sniffs at suspicious-looking stray items until Tommy nudges her away. Meanwhile, he lets his mind drift, lets the easing rain fall on him until it becomes an afterthought.

In the absence of weekday traffic, it’s quiet—peaceful, even. The rain has ebbed and the air is chilly, but it’s a chill that makes each breath feel like he’s sipping on whiskey with ice on a torrid summer day.

Eve relieves herself under a tree. On a quest to be an upstanding citizen—to compensate for how opposite of upstanding he is in business—he digs around his pockets for the waste bags he usually brings along, only to find he’s forgotten them in his haste to let Eve out after days of being cooped up. Fuck.

Tommy checks the bag dispenser at the park, which is usually empty, so it reasons today is no different. Great. There’s no one else he can ask for one either, because it’s a bloody ghost town out here this morning—

There’s a man sitting at the bench on the other side of the park. If it isn’t for the gigantic Bullmastiff lazing at his feet, Tommy would think he’s homeless, with the black coat that can double as a blanket and a beard that looks in need of a trim. Yet the logistics of being homeless do not align with owning such a monstrous canine; thus, Tommy concludes he is in fact not a vagrant.

Tommy ties Eve’s leash to a nearby post before he approaches the stranger, because he does _not_ fancy the notion of that mastiff sitting on Eve—intentional or not—and crippling her for life.

The stranger notices Tommy far before he is anywhere near, so Tommy gives him a nod of acknowledgment so the man doesn’t think he’s about to stab him.

Tommy stops a few paces away. “Don’t mean to bother, but my dog—” he gestures towards Eve with a tilt of his head “—yeah. Do you have a spare bag?”

The stranger appraises him as he absentmindedly strokes his mastiff along its back. Upon closer inspection, the man is younger than Tommy thought; around his age, or a few years older at most. “Yes,” the man says. “Glad to see we’re all responsible dog-owners, eh.”

Tommy isn’t sure if that’s a jab at him for not having any of his own, or a genuine observation at Tommy’s effort to ask for one from a stranger. He doesn’t care enough to find out. “Thanks,” Tommy says, and waits for the man to hand him one, but he only continues to look at Tommy. “What?”

“Haven’t seen you around before. You new here, mate?”

Tommy is not in the mood for casual chatter—he never is, really—but there’s something about the stranger that piques Tommy’s curiosity. “It’s a big town,” he says.

“What’s your name?”

He didn’t realise asking for a waste bag requires a bloody interview. “Tom.”

They shake hands, and the man whose name Tommy now knows is Alfie gives him a bag—finally—and Tommy thanks him before he walks away. The same curiosity that prompted Tommy to give Alfie the time of the day in the first place tugs once again, so he glances over his shoulder.

Their eyes meet. Alfie’s stare is unrelenting, a storm-grey gaze that traps prey in its cage.

Or maybe he’s just fucking crazy.

Either way, Tommy is a predator himself. Enemies and allies alike know this, and it doesn’t take long before strangers know it too.

He continues to think about Alfie long after he reaches home.

* * *

If there’s a universal phenomenon that consistently induces a crippling need for cigarettes and rum, it’s the fact that Mondays come all too fucking fast.

But that also means the day itself goes quickly too, amidst dealings illicit—and not—and business partners Tommy would rather put a bullet in than entertain with whiskey.

Before Tommy realises, Thursday comes around and it’s been half a week since he’s taken Eve out for a walk; thus, he hires a dog-walker; one move to both alleviate his guilt and meet Eve’s needs. For weekdays only, he promises Eve and himself.

* * *

A rather nice morning it is when Tommy takes Eve to the dog park next Saturday; sunlight streams through crevices amidst white clouds, birds are chirping, and the breeze is a gentle nip upon bare skin.

It’s busy here too, so it surprises Tommy that he still manages to spot Alfie with his dog immediately. Lingering on the edge of the park, Alfie’s presence seems both muted and loud at once. Muted in the way one may be when trying to blend into the backdrop; loud in the way one has no control over because his existence itself demands attention without explanation.

Tommy isn’t sure why he sees Alfie that way; he’s only spoken to the man once and it was to ask for a bloody waste bag to pick up Eve’s droppings. Still.

Alfie notices him then, and there’s an awkward exchange of a wave before Tommy minds his own business.

Ten minutes in, he realises while he did not forget his waste bags for Eve, this time he left his cigarettes back at the house. Fucking hell. So Tommy spends the morning letting Eve roam loosely on her leash, and the only thing distracting him from the relentless craving is the suspicion that Alfie is observing him from a distance.

It’s a suspicion that becomes knowledge when Tommy glances at him to meet his unwavering stare. Alfie doesn’t bother hiding that he has either been ogling Tommy for a fuck or sizing him up for something more sinister.

It’s hard to say. And what’s more ridiculous is that Tommy doesn’t mind.

So he lets Alfie watch him, and Tommy can almost _see_ the contemplation behind those dark eyes; he’s no stranger to this look, and on Alfie it is more than a little enticing even if Tommy knows fuck all about him.

Before long, Alfie seems to relent to his curiosity and approaches Tommy with his dog. “Good to see you actually walking your own dog today, as opposed to every other day of the week, ain’t it,” he says once he joins Tommy at his side.

Has this guy been keeping track of the person who’s been taking Eve to this park?

In any case, Tommy still wants his goddamned smoke. “Wouldn’t want to put dog-walkers out of a job,” Tommy says as he digs deeper in his pockets once more for the slight chance of a stray cigarette.

No such luck. He takes his lighter in his hand, fingers flicking the lid open and close if only to keep his agitation at bay.

As if for the sole purpose of taunting Tommy, Alfie retrieves a cigar from his pocket and lights it up. He takes a slow puff, keeping his gaze on Tommy all the while. Tommy’s throat tightens at the scent of his exhaled smoke, and he wants—no, fucking _needs_ one right now. When he finds himself unable to tear his eyes from the way Alfie’s lips wrap around the cigar, full and pink and frankly fucking obscene, it’s the nicotine talking, not his cock.

Definitely not his cock.

Alfie smirks then, lopsided and knowing, and asks, “You want some, mate?”

“No,” Tommy says, and leaves the park with Eve.

When he gets home, he chain smokes for the rest of the morning.

* * *

Tommy dreams of Alfie that night.

He dreams of fucking him six ways to Sunday, dreams of getting fucked by him until he sees stars behind closed eyes.

He dreams of Alfie’s mouth on him, and that beard. Christ, that beard. He wants to feel the burn of it against his dick when he grinds against Alfie’s face. Wants to see it dripping with his come and lick it clean. Wants it like nothing else because there _is_ nothing else—

When Tommy wakes up the next morning, he dives into his work until this traitor of a dream is but a haze.

* * *

Eve is recovering from a minor leg sprain when the following Saturday comes around, so there’s no reason for Tommy to go to the park.

But there is. There _fucking_ is, even if he hates to admit it. Because Alfie has existed far longer in Tommy’s mind than he has in his life and if that’s not bloody absurd, nothing is. Absurd and idiotic.

Nonetheless— _nonetheless_ Tommy goes to the park, with his cigarettes this time.

Alfie is there again, of course.

“What’s a trip to a dog park without your dog, Tommy?” Alfie asks when he sees him. Underneath the casual lilt of his tone, there is genuine curiosity, and this observation sparks an unexplained satisfaction within Tommy.

“Sprained her leg. Rest day,” Tommy says and takes a drag on his cigarette.

There’s the question of why Tommy is here at all, which they both know is what Alfie meant, but Tommy ignores this.

“Right,” Alfie says, scratching his beard absentmindedly. Tommy’s eyes follow the movement of his fingers until they land on his beard, then his mouth, then on that blue-grey gaze. “Greyhounds. Fragile little things they are, yeah.”

Tommy shrugs. “She’ll be fine.” He fades to a silence, unsure of what else to say. Eventually he gestures to the mastiff beside Alfie and asks, “What’s his name?”

“Cyril. Lovely little lad, ain’t he.”

“Lovely, sure. Little, not so much,” Tommy says, surprising himself as he does.

Something about Alfie teases the frankness out of Tommy; maybe it’s the apathy Alfie seems to thrive on that encourages Tommy to toss away his reservations, or maybe Tommy just wants to fuck him silly and figures honesty is the best policy, ranging from his opinions on Alfie’s dog to his cock.

The only issue is they don’t know a thing about each other, but this is shaping up to be another case of ‘fuck first, ask questions later’ and Tommy is fine with that.

If Alfie turns out to be a murderous psychopath mid-fuck, however, then Tommy will slit his throat.

With that sorted, Tommy indulges Alfie in a conversation. Nothing of consequence, but it passes the time all the same. It’s mostly Alfie doing the talking, which, again, Tommy is fine with.

An hour later, this is what Tommy has learned about Alfie: he volunteers at an animal rescue, he bakes for fun, and he got Cyril addicted to apples for a few weeks when he was a puppy.

“Tell me something, Tom,” Alfie says at the end of the morning, “what’s a nice place for a nicer fuck?”

Tommy smirks. “This way.”

* * *

Tommy’s front door has barely closed behind him when Alfie shoves him against it. Tommy’s head hits the surface with a thud, and the sound brings a grin out of Alfie before it dissolves into a sloppy kiss upon Tommy’s mouth.

There’s no hesitation in any of this, only the need for lips against tongue, skin against sweat, breath against filthy sweet nothings and—god, Alfie feels better than Tommy’s pictured it the last countless times in the weeks before this moment.

Tommy soon learns Alfie is full of contradictions he did not expect: soft hands with fierce touches, a coarse beard that burns and soothes at once, and teeth that leave painful marks kissed better by tender lips.

It thrills him like nothing else.

Alfie hooks his fingers around Tommy’s belt loops, pulls him close—closer than what should be possible and Tommy feels the hardness of Alfie’s cock over his pants. Fuck, he wants him here, now— _now,_ god damn it, but Alfie pauses apropos of nothing, looking down.

“What?” Tommy mumbles, searching blindly for Alfie’s mouth upon his once more.

Alfie pulls Tommy’s switchblade from his belt sheath. Ah, that. It slipped his mind amidst the fever. “The fuck is this?” Alfie asks, sounding more amused than anything else.

“Contingency. Nothing personal.”

Tommy watches as Alfie presses the button that springs the blade open. Alfie seems remarkably unfazed about all of this, which is unusual for someone who claims to be a simple animal rescue volunteer who bakes in his free time.

Fuck first, ask questions later—Tommy reminds himself.

Without warning, Alfie holds the blade against Tommy’s throat. The edge ghosts his skin, the kiss cold and stark. In any other time, Tommy wouldn’t have let himself get done like this, but today seems to be the exception for many rules.

Alfie smirks at him, lips so close they almost brush Tommy’s jaw as he says, “So much for your contingency now, eh?” He presses down the blade, enough for Tommy to notice but not so much that it cuts. Yet. The crazy bastard.

Tommy would recognise the intent to harm when he sees it; this he does not see in Alfie’s eyes, so he ignores the blade at his throat and leans in to kiss Alfie on the mouth, full and deep and hard. Alfie’s hand slips from surprise and the knife nicks Tommy’s skin before it tumbles to the floor.

Alfie laughs quietly against Tommy’s kiss. “You’re fucking insane, you know that.”

“Funny,” Tommy says, “I was just thinking the same about you.”

* * *

This is how Tommy’s Saturdays go: walk Eve to the dog park, meet with Alfie, take their dogs to Tommy’s house, and then they fuck.

They don’t usually say much; the sex itself is enough to keep them leashed at the mercy of each other’s touch.

Tommy’s plan to ‘fuck first, ask questions later’ has evolved to ‘fuck first, ask questions never,’ and he is surprisingly all right with it.

So they do. Again and again. Until the only thing Tommy waits for is Saturday.

Until the first time Alfie doesn’t show up.

* * *

The problem with the ‘ask questions never’ part of the policy is, months of casual fucking later Tommy still has no idea where Alfie lives. Somewhere in his neighbourhood, that much is obvious; anything more than that is speculation at best.

And so, Tommy drives around the area for a house that may belong to Alfie, feeling bloody pathetic all the while.

Tommy knows, of course, he can get a good fuck anytime he wants. But it’s not the same without Alfie.

Christ. What the hell is he doing?

He shelves the thought away.

Eventually, Tommy spots a house with a familiar mastiff lounging on the front lawn. There’s no mistaking Cyril, so Tommy pulls up by the driveway and gets out of the car. Any prior doubt that this is Alfie’s house is eradicated when the dog greets him with unparalleled enthusiasm, and the weight in Tommy’s chest eases a little.

He rings the doorbell. Once, twice, thrice. When there’s no answer, he considers picking the lock or shooting it off with his gun. Or breaking in through the window.

Overreactions, every one of these. He doesn’t care.

Tommy hears a distant voice on the other side. Alfie’s voice. He’s complaining about something, about having to answer the door probably. God, Tommy’s already smiling and he hasn’t even seen Alfie yet. He wipes it off of his face in time for Alfie to open the door.

“Fucking hell,” Alfie says, appearing the opposite of pleased at seeing Tommy.

Not that Tommy is pleased to see Alfie either, because Alfie looks like he’s been put in his place by some furious, dangerous people with a taste for vengeance. Bruises of colours across the goddamned spectrum, his arm in a cast, and he’s leaning on one leg like the other is nothing but dead weight.

“What the fuck?” Tommy asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer before letting himself in.

“So, what, you don’t see me for one weekend and you come storming into my house? Are you fucking serious, mate?”

Tommy scowls. “That’s irrelevant, Alfie.”

It’s not, but there are more pressing matters at hand.

Alfie limps to his sofa and falls onto it heavily. Curses out loud when his back hits the cushion. If his condition is as bad as he looks, then it’s fucking _bad._

Tommy takes a seat beside Alfie, careful to leave some space, because Alfie seems as if the last thing he wants is to be touched. “What happened?” he asks, softening his voice.

“This, yeah, this is the picture of my past life catching up to me. Fucking ugly, I know. Note the _past_ in past life, Tommy,” Alfie says, eyes fluttering shut, and he lets out a quiet groan. “Old enemies,” he adds, when Tommy only looks at him.

“Right.”

“I’m not answering more questions, Tommy.”

He understands more than anyone else that some curiosities are better left alone. “Wasn’t planning to ask more,” Tommy says. “Not now.”

Alfie gives a curt little laugh, then winces. “All right, so you still plan on sticking around then.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Tommy says, shrugging.

“Fuck’s sake. Do I even want to know?”

“Probably nothing you haven’t heard.”

Alfie seems amused by that. “Probably, yeah.” He closes his eyes again as he adjusts himself on the sofa, frowning with pain. “Look, Tom, I know you came here looking for a fuck, but that’ll have to wait, won’t it.”

“I didn’t,” Tommy says.

“Liar.”

“Well, not just for that,” Tommy says. “And I can be patient, Alfie. When the need arises.”

Tommy doesn’t know what he’s saying, and neither does Alfie by the looks of him.

Somehow, they don’t question it.

Tommy stays, and Alfie lets him.

For now, that’s good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> If that feels like a tease to a bigger AU, it's because I originally planned to write a longer story, but ended up deciding on something short and sweet, but still satisfying in a way. I hope you enjoyed this! If you have any thoughts, I'd love to hear them :)


End file.
